


The Talk to Me project: Deleted Flashback #2

by destielpasta, mtothedestiel



Series: The Talk to Me Verse [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Bunker Fic, Castiel's Trenchcoat, Flashbacks, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-15
Updated: 2013-10-15
Packaged: 2017-12-29 11:20:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1004826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/destielpasta/pseuds/destielpasta, https://archiveofourown.org/users/mtothedestiel/pseuds/mtothedestiel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel's final moments before leaving the bunker.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Talk to Me project: Deleted Flashback #2

**Author's Note:**

> This is the second of three previously deleted scenes from The Talk to Me Project. This is another flashback, taking place in the moments directly before Castiel leaves the bunker to go off on his own. Again, it just gives more insight into why Cas left and his feelings about everything, but didn’t really fit anywhere in the original story. Enjoy!

**June 20, 2013: The Headquarters of the Men of Letters**

There was no way to know how much time he had. Dean had stormed away with his trademark “don’t care” attitude and Cas knew this was his chance. He rushed around the room he had occupied for the last month, gathering up what few possessions he had to take with him. His clothes (Dean’s), his toothbrush (bought by Sam), a CD in a handmade paper envelope (made by Kevin), and two leather-bound journals (stolen from a Barnes and Noble).

Adrenaline spiked through his veins as he ripped the cardboard packaging from the two journals, throwing it into the garbage bin with a _thwack_. His hands fumbled with an exacto-knife, found in the kitchen junk-drawer. The bunker was full of knives, but most were the hack-the-head-off-a-vampire type. He needed something with more finesse than that.

Castiel exhaled. There was no turning back after this, or so he convinced himself. He could still unpack all his things, throw the journals in the dumpster and wait for Dean to come back so they could sweep all their issues back under the rug. But it didn’t even register as an option. It was time to move on.

He carefully drew the sigils, working only with a memory that was fading as each day passed. The knife sometimes caught on the leather, giving the line a jagged edge, but it would have to work. If it didn’t then he would be truly cut off from Dean.

He finished quickly, and stashed the knife in his desk drawer, not even taking a second to inspect his handiwork. He stuffed his own journal into his bag, along with a few pens for the road.

Dean could be back any minute. His body told him to hurry. But maybe he should wrap the journal in something. Humans wrapped gifts, right? Was it a gift? Or a curse? He wrapped it in newspaper and beige twine to be sure.

But how would Dean know how to use the journal? He had to leave instructions. He hastily scribbled out a letter on torn-out sheet of paper from his own journal. The words poured from him but he knew they were all wrong. It was cold. It was clinical. He knew Dean would probably tear it up upon reading.

He shouldered his bag and left his room without much of a backwards glance. He had never slept well in there anyway.

He walked through the dim halls, listening to the humming of the lights and the creak of the wood beneath his feet. He didn’t know if a month was long enough time to claim a place as your home, but it was his first dwelling place as a human, and deserved a proper goodbye.

He drifted into the kitchen first. A few dirty plates were stacked in the sink, the remains of Kevin’s ramen noodles floating in dirty water. This drew a frown from him. He washed the plates and stacked them in the rack beside the sink. Dean didn’t like it when they left things dirty, said ants would come.

The library came next. Sam had been researching tablet magic when his latest episode came over him, forcing him to retire for the night. His papers lay scattered. Cas wished he still could pray. He would pray for Sam.

An old record player sat in the corner of the room, surrounded by stacks of vinyl that were only half-organized. He tried to remember the happy moments. The laughing, the drinking, the _smiling_ Dean had done before Cas had gone too far and ruined everything. He wanted those memories back. Without the red-hot shame.

Finally, he walked to Dean’s room, his destination all along. He set the wrapped journal down on the bed, along with his explanatory note and his cell phone.

He looked around, taking in Dean’s personal touches. His music, his father’s journal, the picture of his mother that held a place of honor on his desk. His breath deepened, trying to find Dean’s scent amongst all his things. But Dean wasn’t here. And he had to go.

The bag was heaviest when he picked it up the last time, exiting Dean’s room and making his way towards the door. A familiar hunch of tan canvas hung on the hooks by the back door, and with a lurch Castiel knew he would have to leave this piece of himself here. The weather grew increasingly warm, too warm for a floor length overcoat, and some things couldn’t be carried for the sake of it.

Dean could walk in the front door any minute. He waited, staring at the latch, willing it to move. Willing Dean to burst in and tell him… what exactly? Dean had said everything, Cas just couldn’t hear it. Not right now. Not with the world bearing down on his shoulders.

Car keys in one hand, bag in the other, he exited the bunker. The night was starless and his car sounded incredibly loud. Dean hadn’t come back in time.


End file.
